


if it lands on the edge (i keep talking to you)

by MoragMacPherson



Series: 23 ½ Weeks [1]
Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, staking first claim to yet another ship tag, watch one unquestionably horrible person attempt to queer eye another different disaster human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoragMacPherson/pseuds/MoragMacPherson
Summary: How can Eddie afford his own apartment in the San Francisco real estate market after six months of unemployment?





	if it lands on the edge (i keep talking to you)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to eisoj5 for beta work and for her encouragement to actually find a story for these two. There will be more to come in this series, I just couldn't wait to get this 'verse started.

It's only been two weeks since that abortive interview. Drake cringes when he thinks of it— he'd been caught completely off-guard by Brock's brazenness. He _knows_ how to deflect questions like that it's just that the sheer gumption and idiocy had knocked him off balance temporarily 

Carlton Drake is perusing his security reports after dinner while enjoying a nice cup of tea. Security reports are by far the simplest ones he has to read— some of the people he employs in that arena are functionally literate at best and it can't help but show— and so they're easy to breeze through while a bit worse for food and drink. Not like stock or legal reports where some clever up-and-comer might try to sneak something through the numbers, sometimes necessitating a promotion, others necessitating a security report, but either way, Drake always knows about it. 

Still, he's not prepared for one particular detail, which is… oddly upsetting. For all that Brock had been a bit of a moron and needed to be reminded that he's not even an actual hiccup on Carlton Drake's road to eventual immortality, there'd been something… nearly charming about him, in a very childlike way. But it seems he truly is a bit of a child, cut loose from his job and girlfriend— really, Drake ought to at least go and chide him for this. Remind him not to sulk. He sets his reports aside and calls for a car. 

It's at least a fairly clean alley, but it's the dumpster for a restaurant and Brock has to realize just how many rats that will attract, especially with the top kept open so that it can shield Brock's collection of cardboard boxes he's sleeping on from the rain. Drake can't help but roll his eyes. "This is a hissy fit, isn't it? Lost all your toys, lost your girl—who was obviously the adult in the relationship— and your solution is 'I'm going to live on the streets now'?" He shakes his head and tuts. "You've still got almost five hundred dollars in your checking account, surely you could afford a hotel for the night, even a bad one," he adds. 

Brock thrashes awake and stares up at him, blinking dumbly a few times. "Saving it— kind of lost my job and no one will even call me back," he protests in that strange, wheedling mumble of his before scowling. "How the hell do you know how much money I have in my bank account?" He makes no move to attack. Drake smiles at this: Brock seems to have finally developed a trace of self-preservation instinct, and he even shies away from the hand that Drake offers him. 

"There aren't many things I don't know. Let's get you out of this rain, hmm?" Brock hesitates again and Drake sighs. "You must have done enough research to know that I have been known to be charitable from time to time, and you're just interesting enough for me not to want you sleeping on the street for a second night. You're better than this, _Eddie_ , so let's get you warm and dry now," he insists, letting his slightly worn patience show in his voice. 

Brock takes his hand, and stands on shaky feet. "Thought we were done." 

Drake chuckles. "Eddie, haven't you figured out that we're only done when I say so? Besides—" he wrinkles his nose at the scent of booze coming off of Brock. "I told you to have a nice life, and this isn't nice by any definition. Really, death would be kinder." Brock _stares_ at him. "But I don't want you to die— not tonight, Eddie. Come along," he says, turning and gesturing towards his car. Brock follows him. Drake isn't at all surprised. 

Brock smells significantly better after a shower, though his arms and shoulders are even broader than Drake had imagined and make the pajamas that Drake loans him look a bit ridiculous— he _could_ have called and had a proper pair ordered, but that's slightly more effort than he feels like expending on Brock tonight. Besides, he kind of likes that Brock looks ridiculous. "These are nice— they silk?" Brock asks, plucking at the fabric clinging to his thighs. 

"Bamboo, actually. So long as we're confined to this planet, we have to make it work for us," says Drake with a tight smile as he watches Brock pretend to take interest in the art decorating the guest room. 

"That's right— right up until you're building space condos," says Brock with a laugh, making little finger guns at him. His bravado is endearing, but his unease is clear in the way that he gnaws on those already swollen lips of his. "Any rules of the house? Rooms I'm not s'posed to be digging through? Forbidden wings?" 

Drake can't help his snort of laughter as he leans up against the doorjamb. "Not at all, Eddie," he says. "As you said: no one's returning your calls and so even if there were something here for you to find, no one would believe you anyway. But I'd suggest going to bed all the same, I like to wake early and expect to see you at breakfast, bright eyed and bushy tailed. We'll sort out your living situation then. Good night, Eddie," he purrs before turning and heading down the hall. 

There will be rules eventually, of course. But Carlton Drake hasn't come this far in life by getting ahead of himself— just ahead of everyone else. 

Brock remains a bit of a moron and the whole stunt with the homelessness proves that, left to his own devices, he's going to get himself killed prematurely. His complete lack of guile, especially for a so-called investigative journalist, makes itself abundantly clear the next morning when Drake teases him by asking if he'd turned any tricks during his two day adventure in slumming. 

Brock looks shocked. "I had a fiancee— a girl fiancee two weeks ago," he says before shoving a forkful of waffles into his mouth. 

"I believe that's what people in your profession call a 'non-denial denial.' Pardon me, your _former_ profession. Now that you've taken to turning tricks," he adds, wagging his eyebrows for effect as he takes a small bite of his own egg-white omelet. 

And for all that Drake's been trying to deny it to himself since he first climbed into his car last night to rescue this wreck, there's undeniable appeal in the way that Brock growls back. "I didn't turn no fucking tricks." 

Drake raises his hands conciliatorily. "Of course you didn't. My apologies. But I'm afraid, without my further assistance, you very well might have to. How lucky for you then, that I'm willing to offer further assistance," he adds, thumbing along his tablet to the real estate listings that he'd bookmarked this morning while running on the treadmill. "I think I found a place for you to live through this little rough spell." 

Brock's nostrils flare. "'Rough spell?' You mean 'you ruining my fucking life'?" he demands, except he's got a bit of maple syrup on the corner of his mouth and his tongue flicks out to lick it off, which rather destroys the indignant effect. 

"Call it what you will. Would you like to move into an apartment later this afternoon or would you prefer to return to the dumpster? I think that one gets emptied again in two days; might be some tasty treats left in there if you leave now," replies Drake, lips quirking to the side. 

Brock hesitates because really, he's only human, and offered the choice between shelter or no shelter, his choice is really already almost made for him. Drake could be cruel, here, and point out that Brock has wound up out on the streets rather than staying with a friend because, as far as the security reports have revealed, the man doesn't actually have any friends. But he's decided not to be cruel to Brock today, so instead he takes the tablet and shows Brock the real estate site. Brock's eyes go a bit wide as he scrolls through. "I've only got five hundred in the bank, and no one's taking my calls," he repeats, ducking his head and swallowing roughly. 

Drake blinks, taking a moment to understand Brock's reservation. "Oh, that's no real problem, I've got a corporation that takes care of these things for some of my better engineers, I'll just drop you in and no one will much care, not even my tax attorneys. It's not _that_ nice a place, but it's a place. And it's yours, for the taking. Really, I insist." 

Brock shakes his head, squinting his eyes in a not unpleasant way. "But why?" 

Drake shrugs. "Because you're not supposed to be homeless," he says simply. Eddie might be a moron, but he's just… not a homeless person. He's better than that. "But if you don't want it—" he begins, reaching for the tablet. 

"No, no— I do. That's— not exactly in the position to look a gift horse in the mouth," Brock says, hugging the tablet to his chest. "Just, y'know, until this blows over and I can find an editor with the balls to let me get back to bringing you down." 

Drake knows he shouldn't laugh at that, so he doesn't: sometimes people need their precious illusions in order to let themselves go along with a superior's plan. "Or until you accept that there's nothing wrong with what I'm doing," he says, not hurt at all by the fact that Brock doesn't have the sense to suppress his snort of laughter. 

"Right— and then this is gonna turn into a _Pretty Woman_ -thing," says Brock, sliding the tablet back over so that he can finish his waffles. 

Drake does let himself smile at that line. "If it were going to be a _Pretty Woman_ -thing, don't you think I'd be setting you up in a nicer place?" he says with a soft chuckle as he gets up to drop his plate in the sink, keeping an eye on Brock and noting with no small amount of pleasure the quick expression of slight hurt on his face— so he might be interested in that kind of thing after all. 

It's not often that Drake surprises himself, but he catches himself smiling as he makes the arrangements to rent the place and get Eddie moved in. He knew there was a reason why he couldn't bear the thought of Eddie on the streets— it wouldn't be an emotional thing, to be sure, he doesn't expect that. But it should be, at the worst, a pleasant distraction from every other plan he has in play.


End file.
